Having been put on duty shifting home, our social life had taken a temporary back seat as we grappled with cartonloads of stuff in various hierarchies of importance. Invitations to parties were, therefore, not so much declined as ignored. Who could concentrate on the latest shopping find in London when existential exigencies meant figuring out the location of the neighbourhood telephone exchange? Diwali card parties were dismissed as frivolous flirtations when there was man's work to be done - such as looking for the missing last bills paid for various utilities that were required as proof of residence if we were not to be rendered homeless.
The bar was the first to be put into storage. Tired and thirsty after packing away useless, unused wedding presents from a quarter century ago, with no cold beer to slake one's thirst, fresh lime soda became, by default, the healthy option to fall back on. The television had been disconnected, the net was off, even the library books had been shipped, so, there was nothing to do after the family silver had been stashed away for the day. Most of the furniture had also already been moved. We might have considered slinking off for the occasional fashion soiree or birthday dinner if it wasn't for our lack of clothes; all but tracks and tees having been packed too. With little left to do and detoxed to boot, we turned into that impossibility - early birds. We slept when we would normally have been readying to go out to town. Sunrise and sunset became our beacons. Settling in found an echo in a similar rhythm - though we did take care to ensure that the bar was the first to be opened and inaugurated.
And then it came, out of the blue: our first invitation in a fortnight. We might not yet have been able to furnish proof of residence to the bank, broadband company or other service providers, but here was a confirmation of our existence. My wife giggled; she told her brother in distant America that we were going to a party - "a real party" I think she said - she went to have her hair done; she rejected the clothes in her wardrobe and a new outfit was acquired; by seven in the evening, when I hadn't come home, she called anxiously to enquire about my whereabouts. By eight we were ready, and from then it became an exhausting exercise to sit still while we waited till the clock struck 9.30, which we deemed reasonable, if still early, to venture out for the evening.
How soon we'd forgotten what a party consists of. Lights, crowds, air-kisses, music, drinking, food, guffaws, backbiting, gossip, dancing, bear hugs (or, perhaps, beer hugs) - my wife gazed at it all wide-eyed like a kid outside a candy store. "So, this is what our friends have been up to while we've slept our life" - in truth, only two weeks - "away," she observed wryly. For sure, some people were having fun while at least one of us was snoring, and it wasn't me. They'd be returning home high on the smell of marijuana when we were waking up to take the dog out for an early morning stroll. "I'm tired of my life," my wife declared, "I want theirs." We've returned since to the comfort of the social fold. The clothes are unpacked and we're accepting every invitation that's finding its way to us - why else would we have gone to a mundan party of a couple's child we don't even know?
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